


A Weapon Forged in Winter

by MidtownKitten



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Consensual Sex, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Mutual Masturbation, One Shot, POV Arya Stark, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-25 14:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18576148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidtownKitten/pseuds/MidtownKitten
Summary: "He looks down at me and his eyes are not quite blue and not quite green, but they see me, slowly, they see me for who I am. Not a child, not a lady, not the girl he once knew. Someone else. Someone he’s only just discovered he wants more fiercely than anything he’s ever wanted before."A quick and smutty recap of Arya + Gendry together at last - everything we saw AND everything we didn't!





	A Weapon Forged in Winter

He’s watching me. Now, from the shadows, as I loose each arrow, knowing my aim is still good, knowing he sees me hit my target over and over again. But he’s also been watching me since he arrived, since I found him in Winterfell’s forge and gave him the instructions for my weapon. He looks older, maybe a little stronger than when we parted ways. Gendry. He would have been nearly a man when we first met and I, a scared little girl dressed as a boy, already harboring secrets and consumed with fantasies of revenge. He watched over me then, just as he thinks he does now, but he doesn’t know where I’ve been, who I’ve become. I lower the bow and turn to face him. I see curiosity in his expression, but also admiration, maybe even a touch of fear. That’s good. When the dead arrive at our gates, it will be me he wants watching over him. 

I spy my weapon in his hands. “Is that for me?” He nods and extends it in my direction. I take it, turn it, feel its lightness but also its strength. It’s exactly as I imagined, exactly what I need. “This will work,” I say. 

He grins and I notice that for once, his face is clean. I imagine for a moment, pressing a palm to the space where his shirt falls open, feeling the hardness of the muscles in his chest and the heart beating there beneath them. 

“The last time we saw each other, you wanted me to come to Winterfell,” he says. “It took a while, but.. I came.”

I circle him, still spinning the staff, getting used to its texture, its weight. Part of me - the familiar part, the practical part - wants to spend all night with this beautiful weapon he has made for me. But another part - unfamiliar, insistent, and a little wild - wants something else. If these hours are to be your last, this new voice asks, what do you really want to do with them? 

“What did the red woman want with you?” 

The question catches him by surprise and I can see it in the arch of his brow, in his hesitation before answering. I forget sometimes how easily people show what they feel when they haven’t learned how to make a mask of their face, as I have. 

He shrugs, turns away. “She wanted my blood for some spell.”

“Why your blood?”

“I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard. I didn’t know until she told me.”

“Was that your first time with a woman?”

“My what? No! She tied me up, stripped me down, and put leeches all over my body. I wasn’t with her!” He seems appropriately horrified by the idea. That’s good too. 

“Were you with other girls? At King’s Landing? Or afterwards?”

Something in his gaze shifts. He looks vaguely uncomfortable, embarrassed. “Was I.. well.. yeah.. I mean, yes.. I was.”

“How many?”

I watch him redden. “I didn’t keep count!”

“Yes you did. How many? One? Two? Twenty?” 

“Three,” he says. He can’t meet my eyes and then I understand. He knew me as a child and perhaps he imagines I have spent the years sheltered behind castle walls. I’ll have to rid him of those notions. 

I set down the weapon and move towards him. “We’re all probably going to die soon,” I say, trying to keep my tone matter-of-fact, but then he’s right there, the top of my head level with his chin, and I can see the pulse throbbing in his neck. I’ve killed men bigger than him. I have no reason to be afraid. This is Gendry - Gendry who I trusted with my name and my secrets and my life, Gendry who was my first friend and defender back when I needed such things, Gendry who I would have as my first, now, tonight. If he will have me. “I want to know what it’s like, before that happens.”

He opens his mouth, probably to make a noble protest of some kind, but I don’t give him the chance. I let that wild part of me that wants so badly to live, to feel, to let go, take over and without thinking, I pull his head to mine and kiss him. I’ve never done any kissing before, nor been kissed. It always seemed stupid to me why people should want to stick their tongues in each other’s mouths and carry on so, but when my lips meet his, I am suddenly exhilarated, nervous, desperate for more. Ah. So this is why. 

He looks down at me and his eyes are not quite blue and not quite green, but they see me, slowly, they see me for who I am. Not a child, not a lady, not the girl he once knew. Someone else. Someone he’s only just discovered he wants more fiercely than anything he’s ever wanted before. I reach for him again, but he pulls back and I see the question in those eyes. Are you sure?

Sweet Gendry, I think. I have done such terrible deeds, unspeakable acts of violence and vengeance, when I had no name and served a many-faced god. I am not that thing anymore either. I am Arya Stark and I am here with you, at the end of the world. Yes, you idiot blacksmith boy, I’m sure.

And then he’s all in, all hands unbuckling and unbuttoning, all lips and tongue and teeth and hot breath and we cannot undress each other fast enough. His skin is warm and smooth when I shove him backwards into the grain sacks. I almost smile at the impropriety of it. The old Sansa would have been scandalized. But I never could manage to do anything right, so maybe this too is right for me. 

He has unlayered me, so that I am down to only my undershirt and breeches. I take the shirt off and pause as he stares at me. What is it that makes his eyes widen like that? My scars? My breasts? I scoff a little. “I’m not the red woman,” I tell him. “Take your own bloody pants off.” He behaves as if he’s never bedded a woman before, much less three. 

Then we’re naked, me and him, and I climb on top of him, kissing and fumbling, clumsy in a way I haven’t been in years. I’ve been around men and boys my whole life, I’ve seen them piss and wank and wave their cocks around like flags, so I don’t think twice about sitting astride him and lowering myself onto his length, assuming it will slide right in. It does not. It hurts and the pain is confusing, a frustrating, unexpected barrier between us. 

He takes my hand and spits into it, then guides it to slide up and down his shaft. I watch him put two fingers in his own mouth and bring them down between my spread legs. He’s probing, testing, almost as if he’s searching for… Oh seven hells, what sweet fuckery is this? I tense and gasp and my hand tightens around the base of his cock. He hisses softly, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing and what he’s doing is making me undone. Whatever he’s found, whatever magic he’s working feels like nothing has ever felt, feels like more than I can contain. His fingers move faster and the feeling builds and we are locked together in this moment where it all erupts and overflows. So it seems he has done this before after all and I am thankful for all three times if this is what they taught him. 

When he lifts my ass and his cock is at my opening again, everything is slick and slippery and there is only a stretching and a sharp twinge as he sinks in deep. A forge-roughened hand reaches up to caress my cheek. “Arya,” he murmurs. 

I lean forward to kiss him again, finding mouth and neck and chest with my lips, and he is moving inside me and by all the gods, I didn’t know it would be like this. He thrusts hard and it borders on pain, but I have known real pain and this is not that. This is connection and feeling and creation and fire. This is life.

I am not so foolish or naive to think that we are in love. Maybe that comes after, if anything comes after this at all. He sleeps beside me, an arm thrown over my waist, content. I don’t pull away, but I don’t sleep either. I can’t. I have so many people to protect now and I say their names silently, one after the other. Sansa. Jon. Bran. Gendry. This is my pack, my prayer that I send to the only true god I have ever known. And what do we say to the God of Death? Gendry shifts beside me and pulls me in closer. I close my eyes. Not today, I whisper and wait for the war to begin.


End file.
